


La Petite Fille de la Mer

by taishige



Category: Johnny's Entertainment, TOKIO
Genre: M/M, Not Happy, What happens when your life goes spiraling out of control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-16 13:39:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/862648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taishige/pseuds/taishige
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joshima just wanted to be needed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Petite Fille de la Mer

**Author's Note:**

> The power went out tonight for an hour, so I wrote this. It's the combination of a few different ideas that'd been floating around in my head for a while now. I can't seem to write anything happy lately.

It was a weird feeling. Uncomfortable, yet reassuring. Painful, yet soothing.

Curled on his side amongst the sheets, his nether regions felt warm, sticky, a low, gentle pulse, on and off, on and off.

He was used to it.

This feeling.

He craved it, yet despised it at the same time.

Taichi's breath was soft next to him, whistling past his lips as he lay splayed out towards the ceiling. The faint light from the nearby window was reflecting off his skin, outlining his nose, chin and eyelashes.

Peaceful.

Serene.

Joshima shifted his legs, cheek pressed against the pillow as he let out a quiet sigh.

The ache would last until tomorrow. Maybe the day after. A dull throbbing. It would hurt going to the bathroom for a while. He'd sit on the stool and wait, his stomach turning circles and his backside on fire, forehead pressed against the doorframe as it finally came, a strange mixture of pain and wonderful release that left him gasping for breath.

It wasn't always that way.

Matsuoka was so gentle Joshima could barely feel it sometimes. Is this ok, Leader? Are you ok, Leader? And Joshima would nod his head, legs curling around Matsuoka's hips and wrapping tight, pushing, forcing him in deeper as Matsuoka's thumbs held the sides of his cheeks and their foreheads pressed against each other.

The next morning Matsuoka would bring breakfast to bed, Joshima waking up to plates of omelets and rice and salad and persimmons.

"For my bed buddy."

And Matsuoka would kiss the top of his head, embarrassed but happy, ashamed but needing him, so, so needing him.

Joshima would smile back as he ate.

Needed.

Tatsuya'd been different. All want and need and desperation in the way they'd clung to each other, in the way his face had pressed into the nape of his neck, sweat and saliva mixing as he'd pushed him into the wall, Joshima's skinny legs tightening around hard muscle as his fingers had made indents in Tatsuya's shoulders.

They'd been young.

Danger and excitement mixed with what they'd thought had been love.

Joshima'd craved that ache. That dull pain that reminded him of what had transpired, warm between his thighs, legs still shaky and muscles weak. Tatsuya would smile at him from across the studio and he'd glance down, shy, unsure, but happy and needed, so, so needed.

Then Tatsuya'd found Reina.

And Joshima'd found Takashi. And Kenta. And Atsushi, Keiichi, Aoi and Wataru. Ren, Ichirou, Rui and that foreigner named Chris.

He could be needed.

Completely and truly needed.

For a night.

"You're fucking beautiful, Shige." "Fuck, where have you been all my life, Shige?" "You've got the finest ass in the world, Shige."

"I need you, Shige."

And so it went on.

Then his bandmates had started needing him. Silently, shamefully, needing him.

Matsuoka had been first, crying tearlessly in the dressing room, lost, alone. Joshima'd been there for support, providing comfort in a warm body against his shoulder. He couldn't remember who'd started the kiss, hesitant, tentative, soft pecks at first, then feeding on each other's mouths as Joshima'd straddled Matsuoka's leg, dick warm, hot, Matsuoka's hands on his rear end and pulling him in closer.

Nagase'd been the second.

It had gotten around. Joshima wasn't sure what "it" entailed, only that everyone knew, hushed whispers behind his back and the occasional wide-eyed glance.

So when Nagase'd showed up on his doorstep one night, face and hair a mess, clothes drenched from the rain, he hadn't been altogether surprised.

Nagase was rough and big. Different from all the others. He took what he wanted and he took it hard. Joshima relished in it. The feeling of being needed so much, his legs stretched wide open, one knee pulled up on Nagase's shoulder, fucked sideways as Nagase's need thrust in him again and again.

"Tomoya..." Joshima'd say as they shared a cigarette later. "You should come over more often."

Nagase wouldn't say anything, climbing out of bed and walking towards the window. He'd come back after getting a beer from the kitchen and they'd watch TV together, Joshima settled into Nagase's chest and Nagase's hand slowly carding through Joshima's hair.

He was needed.

Joshima kneaded the cotton sheet below him between his fingers. It was black in the dim light. Melting into everything around it.

Taichi continued to breathe slowly next to him. In. And out. In. And out. Tiny clicks in the back of his throat every time the air pushed past his lips.

Taichi liked to play.

"My girlfriend doesn't let me do any of this stuff."

Hands tied behind his back and plug shoved in his mouth, gagging him as tears filled his eyes, Joshima'd press his face into the sheets with his rear end perched in the air. Taichi would use the toys he and his girlfriend had bought to use together, stretching him open, working him up from plugs and dildos to glasses from his kitchen, beer cans, pushing them inside, Joshima's ass stretched and screaming, pulled so tight he thought it would rip, throbbing with pain but filled, filled so full he could die from it, the wonderful feeling that sent him over the edge to be needed so much.

Nights with Taichi left him the most exhausted, muscles spent, lungs straining for breath, his hole turned to jelly, soft and pliant and tingling with pain, tiny little flames as the dull ache overtook his whole body.

But Taichi's fingers would dance up his back, his lips would kiss the tip of his nose, and his legs would intertwine with his own, pulling him close, and Joshima could die from that too.

Needed.

He was needed.

"Love you, Shige."

It didn't matter that he'd never say it at any other time.

"Love you, babe."

It didn't matter that Nagase only said it when Joshima was curled in against his chest, hair sweaty and cigarette smoke staining their lips.

"Love you, Leader."

It didn't matter that Matsuoka only said it as they were falling asleep, the words barely audible as his fingers ran through Joshima's hair.

"I love you."

Tatsuya's smile, Tatsuya's eyes as he said it were etched into Joshima's memory, but it didn't matter that he'd never say it again.

He was needed.

Sometimes he was needed for different things.

Sometimes he was needed to take on a different role.

Sometimes he was needed as a pillow. A friend. Someone to listen. Someone to look after. Someone to be there. Someone to fuck.

But he was always needed.

And that's what kept him alive.

He flushed the toilet, red mixed in the water and swirling down into the drain, out of sight and out of mind. Limping back out of the bathroom, he stopped for a glass of water in the kitchen, bare toes cold against the tile floor, then wandered back to the bedroom. He maneuvered through the darkness like he had hundreds of times before.

Taichi was now on his side, hands curled around the sheets and drool leaking onto the pillow. Joshima crawled back onto the bed silently, mattress barely curving beneath his weight. Lying next to Taichi rewarded him with a sleepy arm draped across his hip and a head of hair pushed into the crook of his neck.

Joshima smiled.

He was always needed.

\-------------------------------------

His bathroom was a faded green color. Tiles lined the floor and walls, reaching up to the ceiling where a box-shaped light fixture illuminated everything. He was staring at it now as he lay stretched out in his bath.

It was warm.

Comforting.

The water held him like a blanket, soothing against his skin, lapping back and forth against his shoulders.

It wasn't late. Seven maybe. Eight. He hadn't been keeping track of the time. He'd gotten off work early, shoot unexpectedly cancelled and leaving the rest of his evening off. It wasn't until he'd gotten home that he realized how thankful he was for the acquired time, exhausted, achy, underlying throb behind his forehead forecasting an oncoming headache. He'd collapsed onto his bed, not even changing out of his clothes, and had simply stared upwards at the ceiling, shutting down his mind. Not too long later he'd finally gotten the energy up to draw himself a bath.

It was Friday.

Friday.

A few years back had seen him out on Friday nights, bar-hopping, drinking too much, flirting with the guys at the counter until one of them took him home, filling him, needing him.

Now he was tired. His mind ached. His body groaned.

He was forty-one years old. How long could he keep on doing this? He was tired of hiding it. Tired of the stares. Tired of being someone he wasn't.

Running a hand across his forehead, he wiped at the drops of sweat. His chest felt tight. Tighter than normal. The heat was making his head swim.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been in the bath. He'd lost track of time. It must have been a good while though, eyes dizzy in the steam. He sat up, holding his head, closing his eyes as another wave of nausea hit him.

"That came on... fast..."

Leaning against the side of the tub, he let himself breathe, holding his head as his palm encapsulated his face. The light seemed blinding now, harsh against the faded green of the surrounding tile.

He needed to get out of the tub.

Hands against the tile, he attempted to push himself to his feet, but pain jabbed at his lower stomach, nausea gurgling up into his throat and threatening his gag reflex. He sat back down, tears poking at the corners of his eyes as his world spun, heart pounding in his ears.

He glanced down. A tiny little stream of red was drifting along the bottom of the tub, marbling in the current of the water. He let out a whimper at the sight, confused, scared. It was coming from beneath him.

Gritting his teeth, he tried again, fingers pressed tight against the side of the tub and pulling him to his feet. He almost toppled over, wavering as he attempted to find his balance, attempted to stop the bathroom from spinning around him. His stomach gurgled and twisted, while just below his stomach a knife was carving at his insides.

He pulled himself over the side, dropping to his knees on the cold tile. The red was running down his leg, staining his skin. Biting his lip, he crawled out of the bathroom to his small changing room, pile of clothes lying where he'd left it earlier with his phone poking out amongst the folds of fabric.

Falling down beside it, he simply breathed for a moment, arms curling around his stomach. The beating of his heart felt quick, fluttering in his chest and making his head fuzzy, body on fire. He licked his lips, eyes closed as he focused on breathing, focused on finding himself, focused on keeping his nausea under control.

Hand reaching out, he found his phone, flipping it open.

It rang twice.

"Leader, what's up? I was just about to head out with some of my friends."

Matsuoka's voice was comforting yet pounding at the same time. He didn't answer. His tongue felt thick in his mouth.

_"I need you."_

"...it-... it's nothing. I was just... calling to see if you wanted to do something."

He couldn't need.

He didn't deserve to need.

Matsuoka was silent a moment. "Is everything ok? You sound out of breath."

Joshima shook his head instinctively. "Mmn. I'm fine. You go have fun, ok?"

Nagase.

"You're gonna have to speak up, Leader. I'm out at the club--music's pretty loud." His voice was shouting in his ear.

He tried to answer, voice shaking and straining, but Nagase couldn't hear it. Again and again he tried.

Taichi.

"Hey, what's up? Girlfriend's over tonight, if you know what I mean, so can't talk long."

Joshima's bottom lip quivered, words he couldn't seem to say stuck just beneath his tongue.

"Mmn, just seeing if you were free. But you go on and have a good night."

Gussan.

"Hey, Shige, you need somethin'? Not exactly the best time--Ryosuke's sick and Wataru's crying in his crib." He sounded rushed, out of breath. A baby was crying in the background.

Joshima's eyes felt strained, tears working past his half-closed lids to run silently down his cheeks.

"It's no problem. I'll call you later..."

The phone lay still in his hand, the ground beneath him wet and cold and his energy gone.

_"I need you."_

He couldn't need.

He didn't deserve to need.

He was only needed.

His head was throbbing. On. And off. On. And off. His vision dancing with each pulse.

_"Save me."_

He couldn't even keep his fingers around the phone anymore, and it slid from his hand, clunking against the wood floor. His throat was so tight he could barely swallow, tongue and lips dry and parched.

He was only needed.

But he wasn't needed anymore.

Using the last of his energy, he reached up to his clothes, pulling them in towards himself, curling his fingers in the soft fabric and pressing his face into the folds. It was soothing, blocking out the light, soft and cool against his skin.

It smelled like home.

What would his mother say?

Would she be ashamed of him? Ashamed of what her son had become? Lying on the floor of his apartment as his insides twisted and bled, unable to do anything, his promiscuous ways finally catching up to him.

Maybe he'd never been needed.

It was all a figment of his imagination.

Tears leaked onto his shirt, damp with warm salt.

With a little sigh, he let his eyes close, falling asleep on the floor.

He wasn't needed anymore.


End file.
